Gemotions

He stared at the plans, the neatly drawn lines representing a boundary, a separation. The architect's words, so carefully chosen, about “property lines” and “aesthetic harmony,” swam in his head like fish in a murky pond. His hands trembled slightly as he traced the proposed fence's path on the map.

He went outside, the cold air hitting his face like a slap. He stood in his yard, staring at the empty space where the fence would soon stand. He felt suddenly exposed, vulnerable. It was a silly, illogical feeling, but there it was, clinging to him.

The sun beat down on him, and he felt the sting of tears. He found himself picking at the peeling paint of the old shed, the repetitive action a futile attempt to ground himself. His neighbor's quiet “good morning” from across the property line felt like a judgment, an intrusion.